Chapter 349: The Exiled Heretics

Cecil Domain, the lord’s study.

Recently, reports on population influx had been arriving steadily on Gawain’s desk. He studied every number carefully, his expression unusually focused.

The situation was close to what he had expected—after the month of Revival, a new wave of immigrants had begun pouring in. This time, the number of refugees moving into the Cecil Domain far exceeded those purchased as serfs or slaves.

News that Cecil Domain was welcoming refugees had spread throughout the southern territories all autumn and winter. Even the most isolated common folk had heard that this frontier land, nestled against the Dark Mountains, was absorbing newcomers almost unconditionally. Anyone settling there could obtain land, housing, and free citizen status. Throughout last year’s Frost Moon phase, Gawain had pushed this initiative relentlessly, and now the results were finally showing.

Sir Byron had leveraged his old mercenary contacts to post numerous job offers across the south, fulfilling every contract faithfully. Merchants running ships and caravans tasted the benefits and grew to trust Cecil Domain. Thus, the refugee intake became a virtuous cycle.

There was no longer a need for Sir Byron to send out envoys personally. Regular “immigrant caravans” now crisscrossed the territories as a new business. Bold and careful caravan leaders with mercenary ties found displaced people or those eager to settle in Cecil Domain. Armed with permits signed by the Duke of Cecil, these merchants transported refugees free of charge, then claimed payment from the administration based on headcount. Some mercenaries even laid down their swords to buy wagons and start similar ventures—gathering refugees and immigrants and delivering them to Cecil Domain. It had become a bona fide trade.

Meanwhile, Gawain cracked down repeatedly on lawless elements who tried to traffic or abuse immigrants, executing a batch of offenders. This set clear rules for the trade and firmly impressed upon merchants and mercenaries the strictness of Cecil’s laws.

More than the sheer increase in numbers, what pleased Gawain most was the improving occupational makeup of the newcomers. Last year, most arrivals were unskilled slaves or vagrants—craftsmen and scholars rarely fell into homelessness or slavery, so skilled workers had to be bought at high prices. But recent groups included voluntarily migrating skilled artisans, signaling one thing: Cecil Domain’s appeal was growing.

People stubbornly distrusted and prejudged the land at the foot of the Dark Mountains, and that wouldn’t change overnight. But Cecil Domain had firmly established itself here, offering especially generous treatment to technical talent. Given sufficient incentives, suspicion and prejudice would give way.

By the end of winter, the population of the lord’s city in Cecil Domain had surpassed fourteen thousand. For this era, that qualified as a “medium-sized city.” Yet for a domain rapidly building a magitech industrial base, this population still left gaps in establishing a full industrial system. Now, with more immigrants arriving and the occupational structure improving, the population problem that had long troubled Gawain was finally easing.

Setting down the report, Gawain exhaled with satisfaction and rose to stretch. Just as he stood, the study window suddenly slid open on its own, letting in a cold gust.

Gawain raised a hand and tapped the air. “Can’t you ever come in through the door for once?”

Amber’s figure appeared with a light bump, the half-elf lady clutching her head, frowning at him. “Why do you Cecil family members all like knocking people on the head? The other day I joked with Rebecca, and she wanted to whack me with a stick too. Can’t you leave a better family tradition for your descendants?”

“Knocking heads isn’t my family tradition. Knights being better than mages—that’s the real legacy,” Gawain shot her a glance. “So, what’s going on? At this hour, you should be wandering the city slacking off.”

“I’m patrolling the domain for you!” Amber shot back, eyes wide. Then she pointed toward the docks. “There’s a new ship at the wharf, carrying a group wanting to settle here… but it’s complicated. The registration office can’t decide what to do, so I came to find you.”

“An immigrant ship?” Gawain frowned, not seeing what needed reporting. “As long as they’re not contagious patients, forbidden criminals, or trafficked people, just register them and send them to the buffer camp. Even those three cases should have handling procedures, right?”

“New situation,” Amber shrugged. “They’re heretics fleeing religious persecution…”

Gawain blinked. “…Huh?”

Soon, he and Amber arrived at the northern docks. On the freshly cemented quay, soldiers maintained order while the ship’s captain explained the situation. A group of worried, haggard newcomers stood nearby.

“The lord is here! The lord is here!”

Someone spotted Gawain’s imposing two-meter frame. The crowd immediately saluted and stepped back. Gawain approached the center and quickly scanned the visibly anxious “heretic immigrants.”

There were about twenty people—men, women, and a few children. Their clothing varied: some wore coarse homespun, others fine wool coats considered upscale for the era. Overall, they looked like middle-class commoners.

Yet these people, who should have lived comfortably, clearly endured a harsh, long journey. Their faces were pale and drawn, hair tangled and greasy, cheeks sunken, shivering in the cold wind. Their eyes darted nervously, and upon seeing Gawain, their fear deepened—a sign of prolonged mental strain and constant worry for their lives.

Recalling Amber’s briefing, Gawain guessed their ordeal. The refugees knelt upon recognizing the noble before them. The bearded captain in a brown coat also dropped to his knees, saying, “My lord, I only delivered these people here—”

Gawain raised a hand to stop the captain’s excuses. “Everyone, stand up. Where did you come from?”

The refugees rose, the captain nervously bowing repeatedly. “From the Holy Spirit Plains, my lord.”

“That’s quite a distance…” Gawain frowned. “What’s this about ‘exiled heretics’?”

“That sounds serious, my lord,” the captain said hastily. “These people fled because there was sorcery in their local church. They feared being implicated and couldn’t stay at home…”

Gawain nodded and pointed to one of them. “You, tell me what happened.”

A burly, honest-looking man stammered nervously, unsure if it was the noble’s presence or his nature causing his hesitation. “We… we did nothing. The priests called us cultists’… minions, took our homes… and drove us out…” His voice faltered. “They’re arresting people everywhere, burning… burning them alive, it’s too…”

“Stop babbling, you’re hurting the lord’s ears!” a tense woman beside him interrupted, bowing repeatedly. “My lord, we’re honest commoners, farmers or small traders…”

“Who declared you cultists’ minions?” Gawain cut in sharply. “Which church’s priests? On what grounds?”

“The priests of the Holy Light Church,” a man in a wool coat spoke up. “Last winter, several families in town were kidnapped by cultists. Their bodies were found days later. Then the priests and knights found cultists hiding in the city and burned them alive. After that, they started searching the whole city… They said only the Holy Light can identify cultists hiding among ordinary people, so everyone believed them.”

Gawain listened, his brow tightening.

Amber leaned in, whispering on tiptoe, “Hey, I’m telling you, letting these people in might cause trouble…”

“Trouble?” Gawain’s face remained impassive.

“The Holy Light clergy are a nightmare,” Amber muttered. “They have noses sharper than dogs and love linking everything to ‘evil’ and ‘heresy.’ If you take in people expelled by them, they might make a fuss.”

“That kind of trouble doesn’t matter,” Gawain said casually. “The Holy Light Church has its investigations; I have mine. In Cecil Domain, we follow Cecil’s rules. We’ll vet these people properly, call Pittman to check for any sorcery traces. If they’re clean, send them to the buffer camp.”

Gawain didn’t trust the Holy Light’s “heresy” verdicts, especially after hearing these people’s stories. But he wouldn’t blindly trust the refugees either. Before letting them into the city, he’d verify their identities. Pittman could detect the taint of corrupted druidic magic. So far, the old man’s judgments had been reliable—he could confirm if these people were members of the End of All Things cult. As for the Sleepless…

That was even easier. Gawain could just check his network for unfamiliar IPs nearby.

As for the Stormborn… Gawain wasn’t worried. Those guys had completely withdrawn from the mainland and were busy fighting the deep-sea saltwater spirits.

If they weren’t members of those three major dark cults, the rest of the fringe cultists wouldn’t slip past the buffer camp’s cross-examinations and observations.

By the way, please follow the public WeChat account “FarSight” for occasional concept art, fan art, and news updates =.=

(End of chapter)